


Steak and Salad

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Feel-good, Fix-It, Fluff not Fear, M/M, Reunions, We, we have so much angst in canon, we need fluff ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: Len cooks Mick something.That's it, that's the fic.





	Steak and Salad

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon of Mick being the primary chef with the vegetables and stuff is all over the fandom. I've written for it too. But recently I've come up with my own headcanon.
> 
> This fic is it.

When Lewis remade his son into a criminal, his son remade himself into a parent.

Lewis had left another kid when he was shipped to Iron Heights. Len and his mom took care of Lisa. When Lewis came back and broke his wife's neck pushing her down the stairs, Len took care of Lisa and the house and his father.

He was eight years old when he gripped his sister's soft fingers and promised he'd be a good mom  _and_ a good dad.

It was hard, but he scraped money together. Despite Lewis' new life as a dirty cop, they still lived in a classic suburb. A couple of their neighbors had little gardens in their yards and windows, and Len used the money to make his neighborhood into a bastardized Farmer's Market. Lisa was a growing girl, and she was gonna grow good.

When he and Lisa were handed of to their grandfather, Len talked to him about what he and grandmom used to make for their kid. Grandmom was the cook, but she had plenty of recipes left behind. In that ice cream truck, he learned how to charm customers and love the cold and the sweet.

He watched cooking shows, dug into his mom and grandmom's books. He learned how to chop vegetables, how to handle fruits. He couldn't bake so well, but his grandfather had taught him plenty when it came to homemade ice cream. Lisa grew up healthy, and though Len couldn't stop all the bruises or scars, he kept most of 'em.

When he met Mick, he started to enjoy cooking.

There had always been a hint of fun, of course. Len enjoyed planning out the ingredients, figuring out timings and new twists. His baby sister's smile gave him all the purpose he needed. But in the end, it'd been something that just reminded him of everything else on his shoulders. Making ice cream was painful after his grandfather passed too.

Mick had grown up with eight siblings and a woman sweeter than sugar and tough as nails. Cecilia Rory, unlike her husband Nathaniel, didn't punish her son with a basement freezer and padlock for loving fire. She gave him a blowtorch and melted sugar, a stove and an oven. It wasn't nearly enough, but Mick loved her and connected with her and his sisters through it. So it was painful for him to bake too.

Didn't stop either of them from muttering like old fish wives about juvie food.

They'd locked eyes. And started talking about something other than crime.

See, Mick enjoyed baking way more than cooking, and Len was the perfect opposite. Mick didn't know there was more than one kinda lettuce and Len didn't know there was more than one kinda fudge.

Fire and ice, baking and cooking. It was the beginning of a lucrative partnership.

* * *

Two years after Len's death, Mick woke up to the smell of steak. The beginnings of another hangover was startin' to haunt the back of his eyes, and he'd forgotten to actually get to his bed again. Or change.

Grimacing, he lumbered to hygiene station. He knew how it worked the same way he know how to handle Chronos' suit, so naturally he sneered at it and called it a weird future-y thing. He yanked on some fresh clothes, scrubbed more than brush his teeth. Since there was nobody around, he let his boots fall silent as he followed the steak.

Damn, it smelled good. Nothin' like the replicator or unnatural ship ingredients. Nah, this was  _fresh_. Were those onions?

He put the thud back in his steps as he approached the galley. He'd spent too long as a hunter. Too much effort to sound like Mick Rory some days.

Nobody called out, though. Mick's brow furrowed. He glanced at the ceiling, but Gideon hadn't sounded any alarms. Still knew for a fact that the team couldn't grill like this. Only one who could was dead. Twice, technically.

Len seemed just dandy, though.

Mick blinked. Rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath. When he opened them again, Len was still pouring his steak sauce over two mouth-watering plates of seasoned meat and artfully placed green peppers and onions that'd clearly gone on the grill too. When he put the pot aside, he licked his fingers with loud sucking noises. Then he finished tossing a garden salad, colors glistening with a dressing whose smell pulled Mick back to their safe-houses with Lisa sneaking bites and Len wearing those nerdy aprons.

"Well done," Len said.

Mick clenched his teeth.

Len nudged one of the plates towards the edge of the covered island. "Your steak. Extra sauce 's in the pot."

Mick took a long, long breath through his nose.

Len put a bowl of salad next to the plate. "You're gonna eat all of that, too."

He was still sleeping. That was all. Still black out drunk.

"After," Len said, "we're goin' back to Central. You need to breathe in our city. Lisa's got our Rogues goin', y'know. She'll get the Flash running scared in no time."

He served himself some salad, grabbed utensils, and sat himself at a table. He didn't eat, just looked at Mick with a raised eyebrow. No matter how much Mick'd forgotten, he knew Len's face.

As Mick slowly approached the island, Len said, "Thinkin' I'll make some lasagna when we get there."

Lasagna. Ain't nothin' Italian about Len's lasagna, 'cause it's his mama and grandmama's recipe. At its core, it was plantain rolled around meat, but Mick'd seen him make it hundreds of times and still didn't know how he did the rest. Len'd always made it for new safe-houses. It was his way of christening the place.

Mick would like to wake up now. This hurt worse than the hangover.

Len's steak was red, Mick's charred. Tasted fucking delicious.

"Salad, Mick," Len drawled.

Mick cleared his throat. He could  _smell_ Len, even under the aroma of the food he'd made, that mint aftershave and bare hint of cologne that somehow went so well with city smog. The detergent on his shirt, the smooth material of his jacket. The. The.

_Fuck._

"Let me guess," Len said, "you don't think I'm real."

Mick swallowed thickly. First time one of Len's steaks went down slow.

Calmly, Len cut more of his steak, pairing the pieces with cut green pepper as neatly as he used to. "So. How can I prove to you I'm real as the man behind the curtain?"

There had to be somebody behind the curtain, and it wasn't fucking funny. Mick'd dealt with a lot from this team, but so far it hadn't been anything undeserved. This, though.

Mick tossed some steak into his salad and stabbed it. He shoved it in his mouth and. Fuck, that was delicious.

Mick Rory had never cried over a salad. He was not starting now.

Len slid closer. "Would a pinch work?"

His fingers bit Mick's arm, eliciting a growl.

But shit. None of the other hallucinations had ever pinched him. Or made food, or talked about anything other than getting Mick to leave the ship.

Mick clenched around his fork and knife. He was not hoping. He couldn't.

Len shrugged and went back to his plate. "Oculus had me for a while. Don't know how long it tore at me. But I think when it did..." he narrowed his eyes a bit. "I got somethin' with Flash, Mick. I'm supposed to do a lot more than just hang out with a bunch of heroes. Pretty sure the Oculus was  _pissed_ at me."

"It's not the only one," Mick snapped.

Len inclined his head without meeting his eye. "It spat me back out. Woke up here. I told Gideon I had to see someone about a salad and took the jumpship. They're in on my little surprise."

Mick ground his teeth. His blood pumped in his ears, and the salad looked hazy, though he could see it fine.

"Mick."

Vaguely, Mick realized he was shaking his head.

Len clamped on the back of his neck. " _Mick_."

His fingers were warm. A pulse beat in his wrist. Somehow, that was what did it.

They collided more than kissed, teeth clacking and noses bumping. Len's sigh hit him, and Mick was fucking gone, thrown back to a dim apartment, with Lisa in the bathroom and jobs well done steaming between them and tucked away in a stash. There was char on Mick's lips, juicy sauce on Len's, and everything finally stopped.

Mick felt his lungs expand, his heart beat at the zenith. When was the last time he fucking _breathed_?

Len pulled back just a little. "Finish your salad."

Mick made a soft snuffling noise. He kissed Len again.

"Then we'll go home," Len murmured firmly, "and you'll make somethin' sweet with my lasagna."

Mick took that to mean cocoa. First time he made Len cocoa, Len―Mick will argue for the rest of time that Len swooned. But he was also thinkin' some cake, somethin' that went good with his cocoa. Plenty of options there.

Mick tugged Len's chair right next to his, making Len press against him from shoulder to knee. Len didn't react outside of dragging his salad and steak with him.

"I'll make it up to you," Len said, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I got plans."

Just for that, Mick ate his whole salad.

 


End file.
